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POEMS 

BY 

Charles Edwin Hewes 






Copyright 

by 

W. L. White 

1920 



j^^ 10 1291 ©CLA6CS337 



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^ The Gall of the West 



There's a feeling of Recreation 

When you go to a different clime; 

A spirit of Exaltation, 

Whether north or south of the Line. 

But to know the intensive meaning 

Of a wonderful — beautiful time, 

One must go to the Crest of the Rockies 

To experience that pleasure divine. 

Oh ! The Call of the West— Youth 's treasure-chest ; 

Hills and vales forever fair: 
New lands, new faces, greetings happiest; 

Glad songs sweet welcoming there. 
Oh! Call of the West from the Nation's Crest, 

Where the great Peaks split the Tide, 
Whore West greets East by the Spread Eagle's nest. 

Atop of the Great Divide. 

There's a thrill of Exaltation — 
Solemn worship of the Sublime ; 
A lifting of thoughts to Heights of Sky — 
Once doubted — here found, forever Thine. 
A great Peace with the Sov 'reign Power 
Declared, and felt — past the bounds of Time. 
A birth of Love, vast — which understands all — 
That rhymes perfect with Eternity's line. 

Oh ! The West is young and the West is strong ; 
Its people wortii mixing among. 

They came from all quarters, a wonderful throng ; 
Democracy — of ev'ry tongue. 

Oh! Call of the West from the Nation's Crest, 
To the Land of the Setting Sun. 

Where East greets East by the Spread Eagle's nest- 
Where the Rivers of Glory run. 



Sweet is the Smoke of the Aspen Wood 



Sweet is the smoke of the aspen wood 

Blown from the dwellings of Solitude; 

From chimneys of settler, rising blue, 

Column of cheer thru the fireplace flue. 

Sweet is the smoke of the aspen wood 
Feeding the fire of the camping brood ; 

Fuel ambrosial — spicy scent; 

Smoke — of the wilderness redolent. 

Sweet is the smoke of the aspen wood 
Inviting the soul to dreamy mood ; 

Myrrh and balm, fragrant, of mountain-land- 
Honey'd incense of the burning brand. 



I'm Going Back to the Hills, Old World 



I'm going back to the hills, old World — 

Back to the Promised Land. 
I'm going back to the Wilderness 

Where the snowy Mountains stand. 

Old World, yon have left your marks on me; 

For bread you've given me stone. 
With joy I'm off for the Hills, old World; 

I'm leaving you all alone. 

Alone with your sins, your wiles, your ways ; 

Alone with your solid slave days; 

With your Game of Business Business 

Which craven Man so foolish plays — 
I'm going back to the Hills, old World, 

To the Hills where nature stays. 

Old World, I'll accept your Challenge cold — 

I'll dwell in the Hills of Stone. 
Proud Mammon, I've got my pack on my back, 

I'm leaving you all alone. 

Alone with your gold by the Money Throne; 

Alone with your measly bone ; ^ 

To wrangle and gnaw the living Flesh 

In the lust of your very Own — 
I'm going back to the Hills, old World, 

With pray'r that you'll some day atone. 

I'm going back to the Hills, old World- 
Back to the Promised Land. 

I'm going back to the Wilderness 

Where the snowy Mountains stand. 



Where the Dogtooth Violet Grows 



On a shady slope near a bank of snow, 
Where they hear tlie sonndinj; river below 
And all above is the June sun 's glow — 
That's where the dogtooth violets grow. 

Where moonbeams their gleam thru the spruces tlirow 
And dim star shadows palely come and go ; 
Standing asleep with their heads drooped low — 
That's where the dogtooth violets grow. 

When Dawn's billows of flame the peaks o'erflow 
And the Main Range wakes as the Morn winds blow ; 
AVith parted lips their kiss to bestow — 
That's where the dogtooth violets grow. 



The Mountain Land 



The Momitain-land ! The Mountain-land! 
AVhere wild Winds meet and gather — 

And Storms, their legends tell, 
To Peaks and Summits list'ning 
As they stand sentinel. 
Dear Oberland ! Dear Oberland ! 

Land of laurel, green -bough 'd pine and spruce- 
Land of flowery dell; 
The wildest land is the Mountain-land 
Where the Sons of Freedom dwell. 

The Mountain-land! The Mountain-land! 

Where Tyrants kneel to Free men 
And Despots find their cell. 

Land, when the tocsin loud peals. 
Brave arms the foe repel. 
Dear Oberland ! Dear Oberland ! 

Land of David, Ethan Allen, Bruce- 
Land of Owen and of Tell; 

The truest land is the Mountain-land 
Where the Sons of Freedom dwell. 

The Mountain-land! The Mountain-land! 
Home of the sturdy Pioneer 

Where harvest valleys swell. 
Where Liberty and LaboV 
To evils sound the knell. 
Dear Oberland ! Dear Oberland ! 

Land where Patriot hopes rest verdant 

On the Nation's citadel — 
The strongest land is the Mountain-land 
Where the Sons of Freedom dwell. 



The Robin and the Owl 



Two bird notes from the dark'ninj? 
Oft, as in summer evenings 

I scan the twilight skies, 
Two bird notes from the dark'ning 

Woodlands sweet and tuneful rise. 
One — it is the dusk Owl, who 

Hoots of the deepening niglit ; 
The other is the Robin 

Piping of the Morrow bright. 

And as tlie note of the Omen 

Thru my soul doth dismal surge. 
The Joyous song of the Robin 

Doth blithely caroling urge 
Glad hopes of the dewy morning — 

Of warm, day-mounting sun, 
And thrills my heart expectantly 

Of happiness to come. 

'Tis wondrous — lifting soul to God — 

That e'en the feathered throngs, 
Of many different species 

And divers airy songs, 
Fulfill the constant Law of Change — 

Successively Day and Night ; 
Pessimistic man ilium 'd 

By Hope's optimistic light. 



Solitaire 



Once, roaming aimless, certain mountain wilds : 

Yet, perhaps, not aimless, but subtly led, 

I chanced upon a vale so sylvan rare. 

It seemed to me that here an Eden spread. 

Not intruding, but raptured, from the edge, 

I long did view the virgin dale, then said ; 

"So fair a spot as this, I wish, 
Might know an angel 's melody ; 
For none so pure of Heaven's throng 
But here could worship Deity." 

'Twas then, a bird — thrush, warbling Solitaire, 

As thru the coveted beam'd a golden ray 

Of Sun, shot thru the shining breast of Noon, 

Upraised a song of such ecstatic lay. 

That, mindful of Celestial sanctity, 

I said, as I witlidrew upon my way ; 

"So fair a spot as this, I know, 
Has heard an angel's melody; 
For none so pure of Heaven's tlirong 
Could sweeter sing to Deity." 



St. Peter's of the Sky 



The Vale is o'er roofed tonijjht 

By a dome of wondrous skj'^ ; 
Violets on the base-line — 

Bands prismatic piled bri{?ht hijrh. 
Atop — a silver glow 

Thru which first stars of ev'ninp; shine, 
'Till the whole a moment stands 

As an edifice divine. 

'Twas then I knew why An<i:ela 

St. Peter's dome dared raise; 
Those splendid skies of Italy 

Give birth to Art's amaze. 
The greatest artist's Masterpiece — 

That Vault esteemed sublime; 
Was dome inspired by azure sky — 

Cathedral of All Time. 

Tell me, could you blame me? 

That 'neath this vast su])limnity 
T knelt in silent worship — 

Breatlied a sweet solemnity. 



Where the Iris Blooms 



Where the Iris stands in meadow 

Beside the droning stream — 
Where the Mountain shines in silver 

Beneath the bright Moon's beam- 
There, Sweetheart, I will meet you, 

Where the gray Owl sweetly tunes; 
There, Sweetheart, I will greet you, 

Where the purple Iris blooms. 

AVhere the high Stars glow in splendor — 

Where the dream Clouds kiss the Sky 
Where the Aspens droop so tender — 

Where the night Winds gently sigh ; 
There, Sweetheart, I will meet you. 

Where the white Mist softly swoons; 
There, Sweetheart, I will greet you. 

Where the purple Iris blooms. 

When the rosy Dawn awakens — 

When the flowers quaff the Dew ; 
When the blackbird pipes its greeting 

To the Avading marsh curlew; 
There, Sweetheart, let us wander, 

By the shore where the willow plumes; 
There, Sweetheart, let us gather 

Fragrant mint, wliere the Iris blooms. 



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